A Wedding at the Orange Blossom Inn(2)

“But if he’s sleeping he won’t wake up if I call quietly.”

“I know, but still . . .”

As they approached the Orange Blossom Inn, a boy sitting on the front steps said, “Who’s Frankie?” He looked to be a year or so older than Lena and was dressed in long trousers, a light blue short-sleeved shirt, suspenders, and a wicker hat. He was surely Amish, but his attitude told Emma all she needed to know; he, like Lena, was blessed with know-it-all syndrome.

Never one to be shy, Lena marched right up to him. “Frankie is our beagle. Have you seen him?”

“Nope. Why’s he called Frankie?”

“’Cause that’s his name, that’s why.”

“Well, I wouldn’t come if I was a dog named Frankie. That’s a silly name for a dog.”

Lena planted her hands on her hips. “Frankie likes his name. A lot.”

He smirked. “Then why doesn’t he come when you call?”

“He likes pizza,” Annie said, scampering over to him. “Do you?”

Emma braced herself to step in. Surely this boy was about to say something snarky. Lena would then get mad and blurt something inappropriate, or Annie would start crying.

But instead, the young man stared at little Annie for a moment, then stood up and smiled like he had all the time in the world for little blond five-year-olds. “Did you say he likes pizza?”

“Oh, jah. He loves it!”

“My family does, too. And they just happen to be eating it out on the back patio. Come on.”

Next thing Emma knew, all three of her girls were following the boy into the inn. Though Emma wasn’t afraid for them—she’d known Beverly Overholt, the proprietor, for several years now—Emma wasn’t especially certain that Beverly would want little girls traipsing through her inn.

But since they were already inside, she followed, looking for Beverly as she stepped into the lovely entryway. When Emma saw her standing by the stairs, her arms folded across her chest and grinning, she grimaced. “Sorry about the interruption. I’m afraid we’re searching for Frankie again.”

Beverly’s green eyes lit up. “When I heard you calling for him down the street, I thought that might be the case,” she replied. Pointing toward the kitchen, she said, “They went that way.”

“Danke.” Emma hurried on. There would be plenty of time to apologize further later. For now, she had to keep track of her busy girls before they managed to get into as much trouble as one missing beagle.

The moment she passed through the swinging kitchen door, a pretty blond girl about eighteen or nineteen smiled at her. “They just went out the back door.”

“Danke.”

But when she finally stepped out onto the cement patio, six—no, seven—pairs of eyes turned her way. Three belonged to her girls, the other four to three boys and one man—one very handsome man with dark blond hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and very light blue eyes.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he said right back, sounding perplexed. “William told me you’re looking for Frankie the beagle?”

She nodded. She was embarrassed, but this was no time to wish for better behaved beagles or less trusting little girls. “He wandered off.” Feeling more than a bit foolish, she asked, “Have you seen him, by any chance? He’s tricolored and has white feet and a white-tipped tail.”

“Just as if he stepped in paint and got his tail dirty, too!” Mandy supplied. “He really likes pizza.”

“I think we just met a dog with that very description,” the man murmured almost a little too mildly.

Just then, Emma noticed that he was staring at his pizza box. Then she noticed that the paper plates next to the box were still in a neat stack.

And a slow, sinking feeling settled over her.

“Did, um, Frankie find your pizza?”

“He certainly did.” When he opened the lid, Emma groaned. At least half the pizza was gone. And the slices that remained were decorated with paw prints.

Frankie had struck again.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll go buy you a fresh pizza.”

His lips twitched. “I’d take you up on it if I didn’t feel so sorry for you.”

“Why?”

That’s when the boy they’d been talking to out front silently pointed to a clump of boxwoods just beyond the edge of the patio.

Both Emma and her girls glanced over to see what he was pointing to. Sure enough, there was Frankie, lying on his side with his stomach distended and his eyes closed. He was breathing deeply and kind of snoring, too. Orange pizza sauce dotted the white patch of fur on his chest and, from what she could see, two of his paws. It was obvious that Frankie was going to have a pizza hangover for most of the day.